Lock and Key(82)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Nothing.”

“You look worried.”

“I’m not.”

“Look,” he said, his expression serious, “if this is about my gift . . . just relax. I’m not expecting anything phenomenal. Just, you know, super great.”

I just looked at him, regretting once again that in a moment of weakness a few days earlier, I’d confessed to Olivia—who then had of course told Nate—that I was stressing about finding the right thing for him for Valentine’s. Her loyalty aside, though, the truth was that having dropped the ball at Christmas, it seemed especially important to deliver something good here, if not phenomenal.

“It’s not about your gift,” I told him.

“Then what is it?”

I shrugged, then looked past him again, over at the pool house. After a moment, he turned and glanced that way as well, then back at me, finally getting it. “It’s fine, okay? I’m off the clock,” he said. “All yours.”

But that was just the thing. Even in these moments— sitting by the pond with his leg linked around mine, or riding in the car with his hand on my knee—I never felt like I had all of Nate, just enough to make me realize what was missing. Even stranger was that with anyone else I’d ever been with—especially Marshall—what I was given, as well as what I gave, had always been partial, and yet that had still been plenty.

Now, we pulled into the Perkins lot, and Gervais jumped out, bolting for the building as always. As soon as the door shut behind him, Nate leaned across the console between us and kissed me. “You do look great,” he said. “So what made you finally break down and spend those gift cards?”

“I didn’t. Cora ambushed me and took me to Esther Prine. I was powerless to resist.”

“Most girls I know would consider that wish fullfillment, not torture.”

I sat back, shaking my head. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Who says just because I’m a girl I’m hardwired to want to spent a hundred and eighty bucks on jeans?”

Nate pulled away, holding up his hands. “Whoa there,” he said. “Just making an observation.”

“Well, don’t.” I looked down at my lap and those expensive jeans, not to mention the shoes I had on with them (suede, not on sale) and my jacket (soft leather, some label I’d never even heard of). Who was this person in these fancy clothes, at this expensive school, with a for-all-intents -and-purposes boyfriend who she was actually worried wasn’t opening up to her enough emotionally? It was like I’d been brainwashed or something.

Nate was still watching me, not saying anything. “Sorry,” I said finally. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. Everything feels overwhelming right now, for some reason.”

“Overwhelming,” he repeated.

It was times like these that I knew I should just come clean and tell him that I worried about him. Having the courage to do that was the part of me I was still holding back. And I was always aware of it, even as, like now, I did it once again.

“Plus,” I said, sliding my knee so it rested against his, “there’s this issue of your gift.”

“My gift,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s just so all-encompassing,” I said with a sigh, shaking my head. “Huge. And detailed . . . I mean, the flow charts and spread sheets alone are out of control.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“I’ll be lucky if I get it all in place by tonight, to be honest.”

“Huh.” He considered this. “Well. I have to admit, I’m intrigued.”

“You should be.”

He smiled, then reached over, running a hand over my jacket. “This is pretty cool,” he said. “What’s the inside look like? ”

“The inside . . .” I said, just as he slid his hand over my shoulder, easing off one sleeve. “Ah, right. Well, it’s equally impressive.”

“Yeah? Let me see.” He nudged it off over the other shoulder, and I shook my head. “You know, it is. This sweater is pretty nice, too. Who makes it?”

“No idea,” I said.

I felt his hand go around my waist, then smoothly move up my back to the tag. “Lanoler,” he read slowly, ducking his head down so his lips were on my collarbone. “Seems well made. Although it’s hard to tell. Maybe if I just—”

I glanced outside the car, where people were walking past to the green, coffees in hand, backpacks over shoulders. “Nate,” I said. “It’s almost first bell.”

“You’re so conscientious,” he said, his voice muffled by my sweater, which he was still trying to ease off. “When did that happen?”

I sighed, then looked at the dashboard clock. We had five minutes before we’d be officially late. Not all the time we wanted, but maybe this, too, was too much to ask for. “Okay,” I told him as he worked his way back around my neck, his lips moving up to my ear. “I’m all yours.”

When I got home that afternoon, I saw Jamie seated at the island with his laptop. As he heard me approach, he quickly leaped up, grabbing a nearby loaf of bread and holding it in front of him as if struck by a sudden desire to make a sandwich.

I raised my eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

He exhaled loudly. “I thought you were Cora,” he said, tossing the bread down. “Whew! You scared me. I’ve worked too hard on this for her to find out about it now.”

As he sat back down, I saw that the island was covered with piles of CDs, some in their cases, others scattered all over the place. “So this is your Valentine’s Day gift?”

“One of them,” he said, opening a case and taking out a disk. “It’ll be, like, the third or fourth wave.”

“Wave? ”

“That’s my V-day technique,” he explained, sliding the disk into the side of his laptop. I heard a whirring, then some clicks, and the screen flickered. “Multiple gifts, given in order of escalating greatness, over the entire day. So, you know, you begin with flowers, then move to chocolates, maybe some balloons. This’ll come after that, but before the gourmet dinner. I’m still tweaking the order.”

“Right,” I said glumly, sitting down across from him and picking up a Bob Dylan CD.

He glanced over at me. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you don’t like Valentine’s Day. Everyone likes Valentine’s Day.”